


Wretched Solitary

by basedblues



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abstract, Angry and bitter, Angst, Depression, Going through shit, I wrote this in a single night during September, It's literaly about not being able to write, Mind fighting with itself, Self-Hatred, You can tell the part where I get fed up at the end and hastily end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basedblues/pseuds/basedblues
Summary: I spontaneously wrote this one night 3 months ago in about the space of 40 minutes. It's a very short story about an isolated person having basically a mental slapfight with themselves. Different aspects of their mind is personalized. Somewhat abstract and confusing, I don't remember my thought process behind it, very emotional.
Kudos: 1





	Wretched Solitary

Sometimes, I can’t help but doubt the world around me.  
Its realness.  
I feel often that I'm living in some half-wakened dream. Many will look at you with bemused eyes for expressing such thoughts, for such idle and disconnected thoughts are alien to their world.  
My world is the same window with the same view of the same city I’ve seen a thousand times. My world is the same bed I spend every restless night on, next to the same TV with the same content. My world is myself and my thoughts, and my thoughts seem much more real to me than this room. 

Thoughts, really, are the only thing I have. It’s who I am, actually. A Thinker. The Thinker, I like to call myself, as there isn’t anyone else here to claim that title. However, I do not live alone, though isolated I may be. There is a writer here also, The Writer, I call him simply. He writes, though he has no thought of his own. I give him my thoughts, and he in turn dutifully writes them down. I do this because I do not like to think, though it's all I can do. My thoughts are grim, full of regrets of lost futures and possible pasts and despair for nightmares of ruin and destruction that I know certain to come. 

Why? 

Because my thoughts are real, unlike this life. 

By giving The Writer these thoughts, I take them out of myself for a short while, and am allowed some small respite. There were others, here, besides The Writer, once. I vaguely recall some sort of eager student, and in the furthest reaches of the near oblivion of lost memory, I can recollect some happy child and a warm sunset.

I often wonder, what caused them to leave? I remember no tragic event, no horrific scene, nothing that should have caused them to so suddenly go, as if they never were at all. But, as my poisonous thoughts are quick to tell me, is that not the nature of death? That a tree bearing green leaves and colorful fruit, will then wither and die in a season’s time for no reason at all? 

There is still one other left here, besides The Writer. We once referred to him only as The Man, but now we refer to him derogatorily as The Sleeper, The Solitary One, The Wretched. For we know it was him who drove the others away, and filled my mind with venom. He does nothing. He sleeps, he dreams of what he could do if he were not sleeping, and when he wakes he can focus on nothing else but when he may sleep again and escape from his weariness. 

This has been my world for as long as I can remember. I questioned if it had always been this way, or if something had changed. If so, what? What could have possibly occurred to bring down this downpour of misery? I dwelled on these thoughts often, for wretched thoughts come often, to the one who has few companions. I decided to temporarily purge them from me, by giving them to The Writer, as I often did. 

I did not need to look for him, as we were always there in that accursed room. We could not leave if that Wretched Solitary One did not leave as well, for we were tied to him, as you may have already guessed. I gave my thoughts to The Writer, and I waited for the muse to inspire him and turn my empty thoughts into something dark and beautiful, like a glittering gem under the night sky. 

The Writer had been granted the unique gift to make beauty out of grotesqueness, poetry out of simple selfishness, reason out of madness. He took the putrid, broken, human soul and crafted it into an angelic marble statue, great and sovereign over all things. He was, in a sense, the greatest liar to ever live. But the lies he told were precious to the ones who heard them, and no one questioned his falsehoods. 

I saw The Writer, there, hunched over his desk, pen scrawling all manner of words and symbols. A perfect union of hands and mind. The Writer, really, did not look too different from me, or The Solitary One. Were you to see us, you would not look twice. We were pale, from our constant presence in that loathsome room. Our eyes, perhaps, may have been considered handsome, were they not brought down by heavy weights. A disregard for sleep and food, and an unsettled mind, had removed any attractive features we may have once had. 

Sensing my thoughts, The Writer briefly stopped whatever he was writing, and waited for my input. There, I told him without speaking, of all my fears, my unceasing despair, my desperate craving for the removal of this darkness to be replaced by warm talks and happy laughs, like it once was, and of my fear that such a thing would never happen.

Idle sadness does no good, but The Writer could make misery and fear into something proud and imperial, and such a thing is good for the sorrowful soul. He began to write, as he was before, and I was thankful to see that while there were few constants to be found in life, The Writer would always be one of them.

Or, so I foolishly thought. Fate is cruel, and delights in casting down all the assumptions and well crafted plans and schemes of man. For just as quickly as The Writer had taken up his pen, he had put it down again. I knew the reason. Much as a man in autumn sees a flying bird and instantly knows it will not be returning, I too knew that he would not pick up his pen again. He had given everything he could, there was nothing left. What muse or inspiration could possibly enter this damnable place? 

I felt my hatred for that wretched Solitary One grow all the hotter. He would drive away The Writer just as he had done the others! I was livid, I was tormented, I was a billion emotions boiling over all at once, all because of him. My thoughts grew thick with demented dreams of cruelty and death, of tears and rotting guts, of well deserved suffering and the fulfillment of demanded vengeance, all directed to the single entity I hated more then anything else in that moment. The hate I felt. For him. Hate. Hate. 

I looked upon the hated one’s face in the moment. I knew he could read my thoughts, for I was his miserable thoughts. The unmistakable lapse in his stoic face, the mask of apathy he wore, that sight of his overwhelming sorrow, that which he made me endure everyday, how like the sight of a feast to a starving man! That growing self hatred, the hate I felt for him, how like a chorus of angels!

The wretched one would no longer find any comfort or rest in sleep now, and while it did not solve any of my problems, and indeed, may only make them all the worse, I was satisfied in the injuries I was able to inflict. To me, justice had been served, and retribution had only begun. 

As the Wretched One tossed and rolled and fought for sleep, I continued to satisfy myself by thinking of all that I hated and despised. I enjoyed being angry, righteous fury was a far more pleasant state of mind then endless sorrow. I knew there would be no happy end to this worthless story, so I resolved to spend it ensuring the torment of its miserable author. 

Sometimes, I worried about driving him too deep into the pitch darkness he had created for me. I felt no sympathy for him, but I didn’t want him getting any delusions of ways he could escape. No, he would suffer as he had made me suffer for all of his life, and he would not be allowed to hallucinate any light at the end of this tunnel. I would allow him just enough rest, the energy to eat just enough food, just enough will to go on, in order that I may torture him until the very end.

He would no doubt groan, and continually question on how exactly things had come to this, and what he had done to cause it, and his cries into the infinite and uncaring night would be heard only be me, to be savored like the finest wine. For no matter how much he suffered, it would never equal one billionth of the agony and hate and despair and soul crushing loneliness I endured for his sake every moment.

The human organism was born alone, it lives alone, and will die alone, as I delighted in telling him. There is no meaning or anything of lasting value to be found in this contemptible universe. There was only the all encompassing blackness, and the rest was silence.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. I don't think I was very subtle in that the story is about me, I'm sure plenty can relate though. Depression, self loathing, anhedonia, all that great macabre stuff that everyone just loves going through. I didn't even remember writing this story, a friend came upon it by chance and told me it was good. Writing is something I very much enjoy, it keeps me sane, but like how the story goes, my ability to write has just died off. This is the last thing I ever wrote, and the frustration and sadness behind that loss is what drove it.


End file.
